My Good Pick
Credit where credit is due.
Marriage is not a Hallmark commercial. It is two flawed humans attempting long-term coexistence without homicide. Even when a jury of your peers would totally get your motivation and you’d probably get off.
On our 14th Valentine’s Day, my husband sent me flowers.
He makes me breakfast in bed on Saturdays. I don’t ask. He just does it. Granted, last weekend he delivered a platter the size of a cruise ship buffet, omelet stuffed with salsa and cheese, avocado toast, bacon, fruit and when I said, “Wow, this looks amazing but it’s a lot of food,” he replied, “Yeah, I’ve noticed you’ve been eating more lately.”
Friends, it is only because I am trying to be spiritually evolved that I am not currently wearing orange.
Still. The gesture counts. And the food was tasty.
When we have company, he sets the table without being told. Gets drinks. Manages the dogs while I’m cooking. Makes three separate trips to the store for the items I forgot to add to the list, despite the fact that he did the entire grocery run hours earlier.
He fills his car with gas so that I can drive it to the airport because it’s safer than mine before I have even asked if I can borrow it.
He goes to two stores to find the diet root beer I like, which I didn’t even realize I was nearly out of. He manages all of our aging dogs’ medications, orders their fancy medically necessary food, buys them excessive treats, and defends them like a public defender when I suggest they may be… robust.
Do we irritate each other? Mildly. I, of course, am nearly perfect so I bug him way less often than he annoys me. He will tell you that’s not true but we all know it is.
Do we disagree? Frequently.
Do I fantasize about a solo cabin in the woods? No. I prefer beachfront property and I am a people person.
But then I see him putting the dishes away without commentary. Or notice he handled something I was bracing to manage myself.
And I remember: I chose well. I picked a partner who is a grown up. A participant. A mensch.
Love isn’t the grand sweep. It’s the repetition. The steady return. The small, almost invisible acts that say, “I’m here.”
He challenges me. He occasionally endangers himself with ill-timed commentary about my appetite.
But he shows up. And more importantly, he stays. Every day, in small coded gestures, he makes it clear: this is us. I’m in.
That’s not a Hallmark commercial. That’s a marriage. And I am still glad I am in mine.